Dean Mamo upended John Barham for no reason, just as Miss Weekes rang the bell.
“Are you alright, John?” Chris asked. John was bent over, winded.
“Hurry up, boys, break’s finished,” bothered Miss Weekes.
“It’s him again, Miss. Aren’t you gonna do anything?”
Chris’s heart raced as he glowered at the fourth year, who eyed Chris back with a look that said he’d be next.
“Well, I didn’t see anything, so you’ll have to go in. If John’s hurt, take him to First Aid.” Continue reading “Growing Up”
A chill wind blew through the partly open window as Margaret Ann led the visitor into her bedroom. The veiled stranger, dressed all in black, seemed out of place within these off-white walls. Turning as she reached the wooden bedstead, Margaret Ann faced her guest.
“Have a seat on the bed, please.”
There was no chair to offer in these cramped quarters, plain as the smile, stitched like a lie, across Margaret Ann’s wrinkled face. A spider made its way across wooden floorboards.
“I’ll stand,” replied the veiled woman, her gloved hand quietly closing the door. Continue reading “Black Widow”